The Glory Boys (16 page)

“All done, then?” He indicated the water, lifting and surging past the side. “I can tip this one over.”

“No!”
Then he repeated quietly, “No. Cover him up. They’ll need to know …”

Jay glanced in the direction of the bridge.

“The C.O.’s waiting.”

Ainslie felt the spray against his face, clean and salt. He did not look back, but he knew that the eyes were still watching.

Kearton unfastened the front of his oilskin and made certain his binoculars were still dry. In Malta they said you should never be surprised by the weather: humid and sultry one minute … He
glanced
at the low cloud. Rain the next. It was cold too, and the sea was choppy under a stiff breeze.

He watched the pilot boat, a different one this time, turning now, leaving them to their final approach.

They had passed an outward bound tug, the deck cluttered with tackle and green wreck-marker buoys, and he had seen some of the crew peering at the tracer damage and giving a thumbs-up when they saw 992’s small company falling in, caps tilted against the rain.

Their return to Malta had been completely uneventful.

They had been ready, and when aircraft had been sighted skimming at mast-height directly toward them they had expected the worst. Then Kearton had seen a couple of seamen cheering and hugging each other as the two fighters flew as close as they dared, and performed spectacular Victory Rolls more often seen above the cliffs and green fields of England. Spitfires: two of that last convoy of reinforcements, which had been all but destroyed.

Turnbull wiped the spray from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the indicator or compass.

“Somebody loves us,” he said.

There were plenty of people about too, rain or no rain, some huddled below the old defences. There were even a few colourful umbrellas, which, like the ancient walls, were shining, and somehow defiant.

Ainslie was beside him, his stubbly beard plastered against cheeks grey with fatigue, and Kearton knew he himself did not look much better.

He thought of the body below the bridge. No flag this time to attract interest or sympathy. Who was he? He had been to see him at first light, but someone else would have to solve the mystery, discover what part, if any, he had played in that sharp and bloody action. But he knew what he had thought before he had uncovered the face.

The pilot boat had changed its mind and was turning fussily again. Turnbull muttered something under his breath and said aloud, “All right, Dad!”

Kearton looked across the water, at the buildings and the familiar bomb damage. The dark clouds were so low that he had mistaken them for the smouldering aftermath of yet another raid.

“Port fifteen.” There was the old white cone. “Ease to five. Midships.” The long mooring pontoons, the wide steps beyond, all slick with rain. He looked at the buildings beyond, and knew he had been holding his breath.

Nothing had changed.

Some figures hurrying to the water’s edge: an officer standing apart from the others, watching their approach, two soldiers leaning against an upended stretcher.

Some of them were pointing at the damage, but it did not hold their attention for long.

“Slow astern, starboard.” He looked at the steps. “Stop!”

He could imagine them giving a cheer in the engineroom. They must have thought the worst was happening when the mines had exploded.

He watched the lines pulling taut. Most of the onlookers had drifted away.

“Officer comin’ aboard, sir.”

Spiers was on the bridge.

“All made fast, sir.”

“We’ll have the dockyard people taking over.” Kearton forced a grin. “So screw everything down.” He looked astern, and saw the other two M.T.B.s making fast alongside.

Spiers was watching them too, but said, “Does that mean—”

“You’ll be in command.”

Ainslie called, “Lieutenant-Commander Price from Operations is aboard, sir,” and a tired, patient voice interrupted, “
Brice
, if you don’t mind.”

Kearton shook hands.

“I’d offer you a drink, but …”

“Hoped you might.” Brice snapped open a briefcase long enough to display a bottle. “Dick Garrick sent this over. Congratulations are in order, I understand.” He snapped the briefcase shut. “First things first, I always say!”

Kearton turned to look at the buildings beyond the gates. The rain had stopped. The place was deserted.

They had reached the ladder; Brice seemed to find it steeper than he expected. Not a small-ship man …

He stumbled down the last step, then exclaimed, “Oh, almost forgot, what with a corpse to collect and all the usual formalities. Completely went out of my head.” He fumbled inside his jacket. “I was asked to give you this.” He beamed. “Now, what about that drink?”

Spiers was here, taking over subtly, and together he and Brice made their way to the wardroom, where Brice paused to examine some of the smoke stains.

Kearton turned over the pale blue envelope, recognizing it. There had been some identical to it in her room, lying with the broken glass and discarded wedding photo.

“Coming, old chap? This is the real stuff!”

It was probably just a polite note, warning him off before anything could get out of hand. He put it inside his jacket, and wanted to laugh at himself.

“Coming!”

It was a lifeline.

THE OFFICE DOOR
was already open as Kearton approached, and the same petty officer, a yeoman of signals, was waiting to greet him.

He glanced at the drops of rain on Kearton’s uniform.

“I see you dodged the worst of it, sir, but it looks as if we’re in for another downpour at any minute. Don’t have to keep you waiting this time, either.”

Kearton looked around. Exactly as he remembered it: same chairs, and a few magazines, the tape pasted across the windows, even the smell of paint. But the glass was streaked with rain, cutting through the dust, and the sky was grey, more like evening than eight o’clock in the morning.

The base was already wide awake, with men on the march, sloshing through the puddles, and the occasional bugle call, or the impatient rasp of orders or information from a tannoy system.

His own energy surprised him; he should have felt exhausted. A few hours’ sleep, encouraged by some of Garrick’s fine Scotch, then the inevitable hand on his shoulder, and he was ready to move. He had met the other M.T.B. officers, but only briefly, before making a list of repairs for the maintenance staff to check, and had even managed to swallow some fresh coffee before coming ashore.

He had looked back once in the grey light at the ragged scars
along
the hull, the splintered mahogany red against the stains. Perhaps it was still not hitting him: his mind had been so geared up for their final run back that what had happened was still being held at bay. Sooner or later, something had to snap.

He realized that the petty officer had halted by the other door.

“Good to have you back, sir.” It seemed what he had intended to say from the beginning. “Me and some of the lads went down to see you come alongside yesterday. You did us proud. Not just us.” He gestured toward the window. “After all the shit and bombing these people have had to put up with—” He looked away and rapped on the other door.

Lieutenant-Commander Eric Brice crossed the room to meet him. Easily, unhurriedly. As if he were more at home here, bombs or not, than in a small warship that still stank of burning and cordite.

“You’re bright and early, Bob!” They shook hands. “The Boss is still away, I’m afraid. But he’s bang up to date with everything.” He patted Kearton’s shoulder as he took the indicated chair. “Sends you his warmest greetings.” He smiled, and it made him look younger. “And he meant it, believe me.”

He moved to the desk. It was bare but for one slim file. There was no ashtray.

“It’s all laid on for the dockyard people to run some repairs. They’ll start tomorrow.” He was studying the file. “Early. No other damage. Engines, communications—” He tapped the file. “The R/T plays up?” Turning over a sheet. “Well, pretty marvellous, when I consider what you achieved.
Bloody
marvellous, really. Not surprised the Boss is cock-a-hoop about it.”

The telephone rang noisily. “Can’t very well pretend I’m not here, can I?” He picked it up, said, “Brice, Operations,” and seemed to straighten in his chair. “Yes, sir. No, I’d not forgotten, sir. Government House? Of course. Thank you, sir.” He put it down. “I sometimes think he actually expects me to bow to him!” And he laughed.

In the next breath, he was serious again. “The good news is that you’re getting two new boats, not one, as was first reported. Arrival time, a couple of days, unless … Well, we won’t use that word.”

He laced his fingers together and gazed across the desk.

“By the way, Bob, I stood in for you when that young sailor was buried. I thought it was only right.”

Kearton guessed he had waited until now, when they were alone: another side to this man who could carry his responsibility with enough gravity to satisfy Garrick, but still keep himself human.

Brice was saying, “There was a naval guard from the base, and a bugler. Not much, but it meant something, I think.” He snapped his fingers, different again. “Oh, and the base sent a splendid wreath. A nice gesture. Thought you might have known about it?”

Kearton recalled the letter, which he had reread yet again before stepping ashore. Very short, three lines. That she would be away from Valletta for a few days. That she might be attending Irwin’s funeral. Then, underlined,
Do take care of yourself
.

Nothing about herself.

Brice said abruptly, “On the unpleasant subject of death … the Intelligence chaps ran the rule over the corpse you brought back with you. No identification—there wouldn’t be, of course—but a tattoo, which was recognized. And there was a Mills 36 grenade inside his shirt, primed and ready. For himself or his attackers, we shall never know.” He gave a wintry smile. “Luckily the pin held fast when your chaps hauled him out of the drink!”

He stood up and walked to the window.

“Coming down like stair rods.” He seemed to recall what he had been saying. “Seems such a tiny gesture in the face of your massive explosion …”

Kearton felt his hands tighten around the arms of his chair.

“There must have been even more mines aboard the lighter than we thought.” Brice was still watching the rain. “Broke every bloody window for miles. Time they got a taste of their own medicine.”

“How did you hear that?”

Brice did not turn. He shrugged, as if it had not occurred to him.

“The Boss kept in close touch at every stage of the operation. It was a great success, but there was always the risk it might go pear-shaped. Only your M.T.B.s were ready and available—smaller boats lack the range and endurance. It was a daring operation, as well you know. Better than anyone.”

Kearton said, “Jethro?”

Brice nodded. “It will be forgotten after this.”

Kearton released his grip and rubbed the palm of his hand on his knee. Forgotten … But what about those who had served and trusted him, and had died because of it?

“Dick Garrick will be back tomorrow, possibly tonight. I’ll be the last to know.” Brice turned from the window. “I’ll lay odds he’ll be shouting for you as soon as he hits base, so be prepared!”

They walked to the door, Kearton’s wavy stripes, and Brice’s straight. They were always having the difference rammed home to them in Coastal Forces.
You’re still the amateurs
…

Brice said, “See you tomorrow,” and paused, looking at him keenly. “You did a fine job, Bob. But watch your step.”

The telephone was ringing again. Afterwards, Kearton wondered which one of them it had saved.

The outer office was still empty. Maybe Brice was regarded as second-best while the Boss was unavailable.

He went to the window and looked through the tape at the abandoned garden. Nothing had changed, except the ornamental pond had half-filled with rainwater, and it gave life
to
the place. He wondered what had happened to the people who had lived or worked here before it had been commandeered by the navy. Like all the other places he had seen, bombed, derelict, abandoned. What had it been like here before the war?

There was no point in thinking about it. That life was gone.

He straightened, unconsciously bracing himself. Back to the jetty: they would all be waiting to hear what he had discovered. That two more boats would be joining them, eventually. That repairs would be given top priority. That, in the meantime, local leave would still be restricted. That would be the worst piece of news. One look at the clouds was enough to tell him he would be drenched by the time he got around to telling them anything.

“Glad I caught you, sir. Thought you might have gone somewhere to celebrate!”

Kearton gathered his thoughts, and smiled.

“What can I do for you, Yeo? Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Well, it’s like this, sir.” He leaned closer, conspiratorially. “We got a phone call, on our special line. Someone asking to speak to you. Didn’t want anybody else. Against all standing orders, sir, but as it was for you …” He broke off, staring at the other door. “A lady, sir.”

“Thanks, Yeo. Between us, then?”

He followed the petty officer out of the anteroom. Brice was still on the telephone, making sparse comments, obviously speaking to someone very senior. Taking the flak for Garrick.

It was the same staircase. A workman was measuring carpet exactly where he had seen her, looking up at him, past Garrick.

“In the lobby, sir. I wrote down the number, just in case.” He glared at the workman. “Waste of time, if you ask me. The whole place is a shambles.” Then he grinned. “But it still beats Chatham any day!”

The lobby was more of a box than a room, with a shelf for outgoing signals or messages and a window overlooking the
approach
road, from which two figures in oilskins were visible, sheltering inside the garishly painted checkpoint.